The Mystery of Peter and the Desert Wolf
by Calculate Freedom
Summary: "Do you think Peter or the Desert Wolf wore the pants in the relationship?" - Or, Stiles asks a stupid question and gets a stupid answer. From himself. The Pack reacts accordingly. Post Season 5


**A/N:** Hey guys! This is just a bit of fun I'm having with the Teen Wolf 'verse. Please don't take it too seriously, although feedback is forever appreciated and loved. It is the result of my realisation that since the Desert Wolf and Peter are Malia's parents, they must have had sex and some sort of relationship _thing_. This led to the inevitable question Stiles asks and over 4000 words of wondering what the hell I am doing with my life.

 **Disclaimer:** No, I do not own Teen Wolf. MTV and Jeff Davis reserve the rights to that. I only own my personal word vomit spewed from the mouth of my inner Stiles (because apparently I have one of those) in an incoherent attempt at fan fiction. You're welcome.

 **Warnings:** There are **SPOILERS** for season 5 of Teen Wolf, language, sexual references and references to violence. Hence the T rating. Proceed with caution.

Scott, Lydia, Malia, Liam and Stiles sit in the McCall home, huddled around the dining room table. Several empty pizza boxes litter their vicinity. Papers, scrawled with research and jammed with the occasional gruesome image, are spread over the tabletop, abandoned to the mercy of the elements a while ago. Elements mostly meaning the floor, grease stains and a soon to be pissed off Melissa McCall when she discovers the mess.

The Pack's meeting has become a hang out, since Stiles gave up trying to explain his and Lydia's latest findings to them. They are a few members short. Hayden, to Liam's dismay, is at a family thing. Mason and Corey are on a date, probably making out as they speak. Kira is still in the desert, doing whatever it is Skin Walkers do. Any potential adults that would willing participate in the strange teenage rituals unique to the supernatural group are at their respective jobs.

It might have been fine, had Stiles decided to not blurt out his next thought.

He does.

"Do you think Peter or the Desert Wolf wore the pants in the relationship?"

Somehow, the Pack's conversation has evolved into _this_ , much to the collective befuddlement of everyone present. Except, of course, to the instigator of said topic change. Not for the first time, or the last, Malia regrets becoming human again. Coyotes do not have to deal with Stiles Stilinski.

"Stiles, if you don't shut up I will kill you," Malia informs him.

It is considerably politer than what she would have been a few months ago. Freshly turned from coyote to girl, she probably would have punched him by this point. Malia is trying very hard, like the reasonably OK-ish human-ish being she is, to not punch Stiles.

Stiles is used enough to death threats that he ignores her.

"At first I thought Peter would be in charge, 'cause that dude has some serious control issues. But that could just be the fire and revenge thing."

Malia's eyes flash an unearthly blue, claws extending.

"Stiles. Shut. Up."

The command, said slowly and carefully in hopes to penetrate Stiles' chaotic babbling, comes out through her gritted teeth as more of a growl. Punching is becoming more and more of a likely outcome in Stiles' future.

"Then I met, or, you know, got pounded by the Desert Wolf and let me tell you, she is just as bad as the Alpha-turned-dead-turned-Omega of the criminally low V-necks. Man, that guy is like a freaking cockroach. You just can't kill him. Permanently, that is."

Stiles turns to Malia, the depths of his seriousness attempting to graze her soul but really, just brushing it like a small, nearly not-there feather. "Malia, I don't think you realise just how good Hales are at not dying. Really," he nods to emphasise his point. Nods are important. "I mean, I've thought Derek's died like ten times and each time it's like 'BOOM! No wait – I'm alive!' At this point, I'm pretty sure if Derek dies for real I'm not gonna believe it unless he's been dismembered and his limbs, head and internal organs scattered to the four corners of the Earth or something. Even then, I bet he could pop up a week later all 'Surprises bitches' via eyebrow speak."

Regarding the magical-ness of eyebrows, Stiles wishes he could learn eyebrow speak. Derek definitely has an entire language, complete with its own resounding idioms and cheesy puns, stored in his. One day Stiles will commit to learning. Or is it something you inherit? Will Malia learn it? She is a Hale and her own eyebrows are pretty glorious, although Derek's magnificent brows remain king. Does Lydia know eyebrow speak? Stiles thinks Lydia knows eyebrow speak.

This passes through his brain in a millisecond. Stiles continues; "I think one time we all thought Derek was dead, genuine article, folks – Scott was gonna commit suicide and everything, although that was more to do with the whole creepy motel – and Derek was getting the nasty on with our English teacher. She turned out to be evil. Nice job, Sourwolf, wherever the hell you hide. You sure know how to pick 'em."

In case Derek's werewolf hearing happens to be particularly acute today, or Derek decides it is a good time to start stalking teenagers again, Stiles adds on a kind of compliment.

(No, he is not scared of Derek. Of course not.)

"I guess Braeden turned out all right," Stiles concedes, "aside from being a hard-core mercenary. But she saved our lives, and good old Scarves for Days, _en français_ , so points to her. Basically, Malia, you're practically immortal. Long live the were-coyote. So you better not freaking die or fake die or whatever because I don't know how much more of this Jesus rectified shit my fragile heart can take."

Stiles finally stops talking long enough to breathe for more than a heartbeat and Scott, ever the True Alpha, jumps in to save the Pack from further meaningless, baffling ramblings. "Hey dude? I have no idea what you're talking about."

This seems to be the general consensus.

Liam has an almost matching dumbfounded expression to Scott's on his face. He is not as slow as his Alpha but even Mason's rants were not enough to prepare Liam for the wild ride that is Stiles' ADHD-addled mind.

Lydia, judging by her cool inspection of her perfectly manicured nails, has lost interest in whatever nonsense Stiles is spouting.

And Malia… Well, she may not have understood half of what Stiles said (" _via eyebrow speak"? "_ En français" _? What the hell does that even_ mean _?_ ) but she knows that it was annoying.

Apparently, this confuses Stiles. His face is not difficult to read. Even for socially stunted Malia. His eyebrows crease and his nose scrunches but he shrugs it off with an air of utter familiarity to the situation.

"Sorry Scott. You just can't keep up with my genius," Stiles counters, smirking.

Lydia looks up from her nails to glare at Stiles. "I believe the correct term is lunacy."

Stiles laughs, a slightly bitter edge there that had not been present two years previously.

"Welp, you and I both know lunacy, don't we, Lyds?" he replies, only partially teasing.

However, the mood is too light to be dragged down and Stiles launches back into his spiel as though none of the distractions, mostly a result of him, happened.

"Yeah, the Desert Wolf doesn't seem the type to be bossed around. At least, that's the vibe I got when I was impaled by that glass table. She has one hell of a throw."

"Stiles!" Malia snaps, less out of anger and more out of shame she was unable to protect him from getting hurt by her mother.

"Mmm," Stiles muses, as if Malia did not interrupt at all. "I'm frankly shocked I don't walk around looking like a rainbow from all the bruises I get running around with you guys. I should invest in armour. It would look awesome."

He pauses momentarily, eyes distant as though he is imagining his hypothetical armour now. Knowing Stiles, he likely is.

"Anyway, my bet's on Desert Wolf nailing Peter to the bed. He probably tried to mind fuck her and she was all like 'nope', clawed his chest open and Peter got a hard-on. And Creepy Uncle Peter wasn't an Alpha back then, or burnt into psychotic crispy bacon, so he was probably mellower."

Liam looks like his delicate sophomore brain has been forever scarred. Clearly, being a werewolf does not mean one is incapable of resembling an overripe tomato. Stiles was so sure Liam and Hayden have gotten it on by now. Maybe it is the older people sex that is defiling Liam's mind eye to the extent that he has been transformed into a living furnace.

As of yet, there is no interest from Lydia. Malia appears seconds away from nailing Stiles into the wall. And not in the good way. More of a break every bone in his body kind of way. Both are expected reactions. Stiles has gone too far to go back.

It is Scott's expression that very nearly catches Stiles off guard. Even after becoming the True Alpha and cutting his floppy hair so he resembled an actual, dare Stiles say it, _cool person_ , Scott is somehow managing to look like a kicked puppy. Damn it, Stiles thought Scott outgrew his puppy face. Stiles has the inexplicable urge to scratch Scott behind the ears. Or perhaps take him on a walk.

 _Must repress urge! Repress! Repress!_

"Malia, you definitely inherited your badassery from the coyote side of your fun little family tree," Stiles continues unperturbed. "Peter's too… what's the word? Um… ooh! Egotistical! Yeah, that's it. Hard to look pretty when your gigantic teeth are digging into some guy's flesh and tearing his arm from his shoulder. But you're good at it, Malia. Looking pretty, I mean, when committing unspeakable acts of violence. Like that rabbit carcass I found and you had rabbit blood smeared on your face and hands and I just thought 'that is both disgusting and endearing'. People say that about me when I eat curly fries actually. The disgusting part."

"Stiles…" Once again, Malia's eyes glow. Her claws bite into the table, dangerously close to Stiles' hand. He subtly shifts it into his lap.

"But we all know deep, deep, deeeep down – underneath all the untrustworthiness and issues and major creepitude – Peter has some goodness. Not that I'll trust him. Ever. I think when you were born, Malia, you didn't just steal mommy's coyote powers. You probably sucked out all of Peter's niceness. Or it skipped a generation because every other Hale I've met, namely Derek and Cora, might be abrasive and fond of hurting me but secretly they're total softies."

That's his story and he's sticking with it.

Stiles is vaguely aware that a majority of what he just said could be viewed as 'insulting' so he lays a little extra praise on his favourite were-coyote. Then again, the Desert Wolf and Theo are the only other were-coyotes he knows. The Desert Wolf tried to kill him and Theo is also fifty percent werewolf and one hundred percent a shady, motherfucking lying bastard who is made of pure evil and with obviously supernaturally engineered good looks because even his face is a lie.

Malia will always be infinitely better. Multiplied by the fucking Einstein-Rosen Bridge. Oh yeah, here comes the compliments train. "Malia, the Desert Wolf and Peter are lucky they produced someone as awesome as you. The Tates definitely helped. Remind me to thank your dad later, if he doesn't shoot me for the termination of the incredible romance that was us."

Something dawns on Stiles as he says this. Something quite important to his current state of being alive.

"Please tell me you didn't tell him we were having sex!" Stiles begs. He does not want to die! "I survived too much supernatural shit to be ended by your angry father with a bullet to the head."

A shudder, almost undetectable to anyone without heightened were-senses, passes through Stiles' frame. Immediately, Scott grabs Stiles' shoulder in panic, an attempt to anchor his friend. Stiles jerks back but quickly covers it with a smile.

"Whoa, hey! Sorry. I'll try not to breathe too loudly if you're gonna freak out like that. Down there, Scotty boy."

Scott, not hearing any irregular beats in Stiles' pulse, backs down, although he remains tense. "Um, yeah. Sorry dude," Scott says. "I worry about you."

"I know," Stiles replies. How could Theo ever think he could come between their bone deep bromance? Wait, because Theo is an idiot who thought Stiles was an idiot but thought wrong because Theo is an idiot.

(Theo Raeken does not make Stiles go in circles. Stiles goes in circles because he _wants_ to.)

This is also in addition to being a shady, motherfucking lying bastard who is made of pure evil and with obviously supernaturally engineered good looks because even his face is a lie. Feel the burn Theo. Feel it.

Obliviously, Malia interjects; "Stiles?"

Could she not sense Stiles internally scorching Theo Raeken alive? Also to death and eternal suffering? Because he is a shady, motherfucking lying –

"Yes?" he at last responds to her.

Malia cuffs him in the head, holding back some of her immense strength. Apparently, not quite enough, as Stiles' head smacks on the table. Since she gained the Desert Wolf's powers Malia has no clue what her limits are anymore. She still needs to figure it out. Stiles' forehead suffers the consequences.

"Ow!" Stiles whines, rubbing his bruising temple. "What was that for?"

"For being stupid," Malia tells him matter-of-factly.

"I can't believe this is still progress," Stiles mutters under his breath. "In my defence, I did call you nice, pretty and awesome in less than ten minutes," he points out. Malia, like Stiles chose to do not so long ago, ignores him.

Lydia's attention flickers up to the conversation. Naturally, it is to insult Stiles.

"You were also stupid," she adds. "I would ask whether you or Malia, as you so eloquently put it, "wore the pants" in your relationship but we are _all_ aware of the fact Malia absolutely dominated you." Malia looks satisfied by this assessment and Stiles grins.

"What can I say? Both you lovely ladies know I like my women powerful," he winks, but it appears to be more of an eye spasm.

Liam seems as though he might faint from all the drama.

Stiles clutches a hand to his chest. "Powerful women! You are my weakness! Plus, Malia's, like, eighty percent were-coyote."

"And what are you? Ninety percent stupid?" Malia retorts. It may not be the most intellectually-boggling abuse but for a girl who spent eight years as a wild animal roaming the woods it is very impressive. She is much better at causing physical rather than emotional pain.

"No, I'm ninety percent sarcasm," Stiles quips. "Also two percent pale, three percent ADHD, four percent beauty and one percent miscellaneous Stiles stuff. Maybe my sarcasm ate all the non-sarcastic parts of my brain, thus affecting my intelligence if that's what you're referring to."

Seeing Malia flounder under the barrage of Stiles' nonsense, Lydia steps in, with a flip of her immaculate strawberry blonde hair for added impact.

"Honey, you missed flailing," Lydia drawls, green eyes boring into Stiles'. "Flailing makes up an important percentage of your personality. I would know."

"What! I- I don't- I do not flail!" Stiles splutters.

"You totally do," Malia asserts, blunt as ever.

Liam, previously frozen in shock by the insanity of the conversation, manages to break free of his paralysis to input; "Uh, no offence, but you do kind of flail. A lot."

"Yeah, well, no offence Liam, but you smell like a wet dog," Stiles snarks. "I don't flail!"

Stiles stands up from the table but unbalances, waving his arms to stay upright. Realising what he just did (read: _flailing_ ) Stiles' eyes widen and he sits back down.

"OK, that doesn't prove anything!" he cries. "Come on, Scotty. Tell 'em!"

Mortification is the best word to describe the look on Scott's face when Stiles puts him in that particular uncomfortable position. "I would but…" Scott's eyes become transfixed to his fidgeting hands in a weak attempt to deflect Stiles' attention, "You flail all the time, man."

"I've been betrayed!" Stiles gasps. "I don't believe it! How could you?"

Scott stares persistently away from Stiles, although the offended tone makes him flinch. All too quickly, the looming silence becomes overbearing. He glimpses up at Stiles to be met with his best friend's furious gaze.

Only for it to dissolve in seconds, Stiles breaking into bellows of laughter. "HAH! Your face! You're so easy to trick, Scott. Even with a completely unfair advantage. But your werewolf powers are no match for my universally dreaded acting abilities!"

Scott gapes, looking more fish than wolf in the moment. Then his brain slams into what just happened, remaining dredges of panic and hurt floating in his expression.

"Not cool, Stiles," Scott mumbles, lips somewhere between a pout and a frown. Guilt weighs down the set of his shoulders and his wavering confidence.

"No. It was completely cool," Stiles insists, smile stretched wide though it fetters slightly in his warm eyes, "because I'm awesome. You guys seriously think I'd be offended by being called out for _flailing_? Everyone tells me that, dumbass."

Stiles shoves Scott playfully. Lydia nods sagely in the background, with an air of all-knowingness that comes with the territory of being Lydia Martin, resident genius and fabulous Banshee. Malia silently echoes the sentiment, wondering stamped on her face that anyone could _not_ point out Stiles' spastic movements. Liam appears to be a cross between mortified and mollified. _Moltified_ , Stiles dubs it silently.

"Unless those people are nice, unlike you meanies," Stiles brandishes an accusing finger at them. Only Liam and Scott have the decency to look ashamed. Mostly Scott, as Liam is preoccupied with Stiles calling him a "meanie" like a grade-schooler. "As the only pretty much legitimate human of our inner circle, I demand sensitivity and bags of frozen peas for when you freaking animals hurt me. Malia."

He scowls (as well as he can… so, not really) at her, hand jumping to indicate his damaged cranium. She shrugs.

"Uh-huh, you better get my groceries," Stiles demands in response to Malia's non-existent request. "And not just meat this time, kay? Not all of us are blood-thirsty carnivores."

Sometimes Malia thinks Stiles has whole conversations going on in his head that no one else seems to hear. Possibly.

"Yep," he confirms. "So no worries, Scott, right? I'm no stranger to flailing and the announcement of this to the general public. First year of high school, I think Harris told me I was a juvenile delinquent with no control over my body or mouth and that, if it were not for my ability to interject stupidity into the room at every single inopportune moment possible, he might have thought that my brain was only partially attached to my brainstem. I'm fine, you're fine, we're still buddies and it was hilarious. I'd tell you to relax but I'm pretty much a ball of stress and anxiety so… not gonna do that. Don't wanna be a hypocrite. You know how it goes."

"Not really," Liam admits, but a smug smile slips past his defences. "You're worse than my mom."

Stiles rolls his eyes. Should they force him to get them checked? It looked like he strained a muscle doing that. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, pack mom. You are."

Stiles knows a challenge when he hears one.

The two launch into an all-out debate regarding Stiles' pack mom status while Malia glowers in the background. Lydia nevertheless notices the corners of Malia's lips are upturned. She is glad that, despite their abrupt breakup, Stiles and Malia are still close friends. If anyone could manage it, unbothered by awkwardness beyond Stiles' usual brand, it would be those two.

Malia genuinely cares about Stiles and, mate or not, they are Pack. Avoiding one another simply because they are not dating is beyond her comprehension, human norms be damned.

Stiles, of course, is _Stiles_ – oddly comfortable with himself yet full of worries and insecurities. He will not abandon Malia, unless she tells him to back off. Even then he would probably wheedle someone, most likely Scott, into spying on her to make sure she was alright.

They will not give up each other, despite the differences and changing circumstances that drove them apart. Once, after the Nogitsune drama and transforming from a coyote into a girl eight years behind her peers with no control over her instincts, they needed each other. But now they need space that as lovers they could not find. Lydia likes to think, watching Malia slam Stiles' head into a table or Stiles rambling encouragement to Malia's growing annoyance, that their relationship has evolved to adapt, no less strong than before. They are everything they need as friends.

As long as it is not another case of the Scott and Allison (Lydia has to swallow back a lump rising in her throat) debacle. The two of them got over it eventually but Lydia does not know if she could stand months of either Malia or Stiles avoiding the other, while one of them pined desperately, until they both moved on and accepted it.

After everything involving Chimeras, Theo, Dread Doctors, the Beast of _Gévaudan_ and the horrible time spent catatonic in Eichen, the Pack needs one another too. They need to cultivate that closeness that was shattered. Repair the shaky bonds that were just salvaged from being completely broken. The Pack must become strong again. Stiles and Malia remaining friends helped.

Scott outright laughs, tension unknotting, when Liam falls into Stiles' carefully laid trap of logic, yelling; "Shit! Not fair!"

(Never dare question the ridiculous lengths Stiles will go to maintain his image as the not-pack-mom whenever it comes up.)

Stiles cackles in a manner disconcertingly similar to a textbook evil witch seeing Liam's irritation at having failed to get Stiles to admit he is totally pack mom. His long fingers steeple under his chin in a horrible Hannibal Lector impression. Perhaps he is aiming for Sherlock? He really cannot pull off evil genius and make that utterly goofy expression at the same time. There are limits.

Lydia is not an idiot. On the contrary. Have you _met_ her? Idiots do not teach themselves archaic Latin in a matter of weeks. She knows Stiles planned this – to bring up Scott's Alpha insecurities and soothe them, all without Scott knowing. He succeeded, in a subtle bro-way.

Stiles always manages to lift the Pack's burden in the most annoying ways possible. When one of them needs a kick in the ass, Stiles is usually the one delivering it, using his preferred method of sarcasm. When one of them needs an ear, Stiles is there to listen and miraculously make things better, even if at the time it just seems like he is getting on your nerves.

He protects Pack in a different way than Scott. He does not blindly trust outsiders. In fact he is more often than not outright suspicious. But once you earn his loyalty, there is no getting rid of him.

Although Stiles is a rather unorthodox mother – he is an unorthodox _human being_ – he still takes the title of pack mom. Stiles would and does go to incredible lengths for the Pack. To research, protect them, risk his neck. Lie for them or even to them, all for the Pack's safety. Even if it means jeopardising their trust in him. He constantly follows them into terrifying, life-threatening situations with only a freaking baseball bat. Somehow he manages to save them a lot of the time, the actual supernatural creatures, rather than the other way around.

Stiles uses his time and energy, blood, sweat and goddamn tears to keep them together and fighting. He puts on a mask of sarcasm, wit and brightness to hide his pain. Lydia of all people knows how draining that is.

Sometimes even she forgets, when she is drowning in her own problems, what Stiles does for the Pack.

"Ugh, I wish Mason were here. He'd back me up. Instead he's off with Corey," Liam complains, collapsing onto the table and attempting to bury his head into the wooden surface.

"Hey, leave the man to his sexy times with his boyfriend," Stiles reprimands seriously. "Right now we're keeping it PG."

"God, I don't need that image! And what part of this entire conversation has been PG?" Liam groans while Scott starts choking behind him. You would think Scott would be used to Stiles' inappropriate jokes after so many years but then again, it's Stiles.

Malia gives up trying to verbally protest against Stiles' behaviour. She opts to instead roll her eyes in a supremely Hale fashion. Lydia is proud of her.

"Stiles," Lydia says, the pure power of her eyes pinning him down. "You're pack mom."

Liam instantly brightens, realising Lydia is on his side. Scott makes a couple more strangled noises that, were he not a werewolf, would have concerned Lydia.

"We established this literally a minute ago, I am not pack mom!"

Lydia smirks as Stiles arms fly out wildly, yet again flailing, everyone relaxed and laughing around him.

He is so pack mom.

Also, he may or may not have forgotten to take his Adderall that day.


End file.
